Diva

by Jillian Larkin

  Much as Clara hated to admit it, it seemed Lorraine had been right. There was definitely more to this girl than met the eye.

  “You did all that today?” Solomon asked. Clara nodded. “That’s some fine detective work—better than what a lot of real cops were able to turn up on this particular dame.”

  “Thank you. So you do recognize her?” She tugged nervously at the sailor collar of her blue-and-white plaid day dress.

  Now that it appeared her sleuthing was going to dig up real answers, Clara almost didn’t want to hear them. As soon as she knew for sure that Anastasia was up to no good, she would have to do something about it. It was one thing to long for Marcus from afar—it would be quite another to actually see him face to face.

  “Sure I recognize her.” Solomon lit his cigarette and took a drag, filling the tiny room with smoke. “She popped up in a couple of my cases, back when I was still working with the NYPD. This girl’s been into a little of everything—robbing banks, tax fraud, even assault and battery.”

  Clara had trouble keeping her breathing even. She hadn’t thought the woman was a bona fide criminal.

  “But she was never arrested?”

  Solomon shook his head. “She’s a slippery one. She went under a different name every time. Deirdre Fitzsimons, Deirdre Dunwoody, Deirdre Jennings … Last time we were chasing her, we pinned down her real name as Deirdre Van Doren. But then she disappeared on us, like she always does. Looks like she wised up this time and used a totally fake name.”

  “You’re sure that’s her?”

  He gave the picture another glance. “I wouldn’t bet my life on it. But I’d bet … your life.”

  Clara was taken aback. Then Solomon laughed. “That was a joke, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, um … okay. Well, ha ha!”

  Solomon took a sip of what appeared to be a cup of cold coffee. “This one started early. She’s about twenty-one, I’d say. She’s got a guy who does fake birth certificates and the whole shebang each time she decides to fleece somebody. Could I see that file of yours?” Clara wordlessly handed it over, and he shuffled through the pages. “Sheesh, I would’ve thought a writer would have better handwriting.”

  Clara shrugged. “I failed my class in cursive, what can I say?”

  Solomon snorted. “You’re feisty. I like that.” He stopped on one of the open pages. “So she’s in college. Must’ve thought she needed to step up her game to get herself hitched to someone who’s really loaded.” He put the file down on his desk. “It’s a little hard not to admire a dame like that, I’ve gotta say. Who’s the fool marrying her?”

  “My old b—just, a, um … just a friend.”

  Solomon frowned. “Well, if you want to be a real friend to him, you better tell him to run as fast as he can.”

  Clara swallowed hard. Solomon was right. The problem was, while Marcus would call Clara a lot of things, a friend definitely wasn’t one of them.

  Clara stormed into Hartley Hall looking purposeful.

  A few boys in V-neck sweaters and knickers or checkered blazers and trousers sat in cushy chairs in the common area and played poker. Others gathered around a fellow telling an animated story at the bottom of the stairs.

  Clara was going to have to send some kind of gift basket to Ricky in Features over at the Manhattanite. His Barnard admissions contact had put her in touch with a guy who worked in housing at Columbia. As soon as Clara had gotten hold of Marcus’s dorm and room number, she’d taken the train straight up to Morningside Heights. She needed to warn Marcus about Anastasia right away. Before he made a terrible mistake.

  A thick-looking boy at the poker table gave Clara a quick glance before returning his eyes to the cards. “No girls in the dorm.”

  One of the boys by the stairs—a particularly handsome fellow with brown hair and light gray eyes—approached Clara. “Don’t be such a flat tire, Aaron.” He gave Clara a dazzling smile. “I’m Thomas. Nice to meet you.”

  “Clara.” She let her hand linger in his when he shook it.

  “I’m afraid old Aaron’s right, though. You’ll get in huge trouble if someone catches you.”

  “Oh no!” Clara said, raising her voice higher than usual and giving Thomas her best doe eyes. “I’m sorry—I go to school across the street, and I was so curious to see what a real Columbia dorm looked like.” Clara stepped closer to Thomas and touched his arm lightly. “Now I’ll have to leave without even getting to see a dorm room.”

  Thomas’s eyes widened. He took her arm and led her a little away from the others. “Go around back to the second door on the left. From there you can take the back staircase and no one will see you.”

  “But won’t the door be locked?”

  “Naw, the lock on that door got busted a while ago. None of the RAs have reported it—they sneak girls in as often as we do.” He gave her a smug smile. “My room’s two twenty-five. I’ll see you there in about five minutes?”

  Sometimes boys made things so easy. “I’ll see you there.”

  Clara walked around the deep-red brick, ivory-trimmed dormitory and found the door. She grinned when the doorknob gave right under her hand. She walked into a deserted, concrete-walled stairwell. She took a deep breath, gripped the iron railing, and began to climb. Once she reached the second floor, she pushed the heavy stair door open and walked into the hall.

  It was like stepping out of a dingy cornfield into The Secret Garden. Clara marveled that this was merely a college dormitory. The walls were wood-paneled and masculine. Her heels sank into the plush rug and sconces hung between each of the doors. There were even elegant wooden benches against the walls, in case Columbia’s men decided they couldn’t make it the last five steps to their rooms before they needed to sit down. She knocked hard on 237 when she reached it.

  And there he was.

  For a split second, Marcus looked the way Clara always remembered him. He wore the half smirk of a man who knew that no matter what he said, it would always be charming and clever. He was dressed casually in a blue silk button-down with rolled-up sleeves and tan trousers. His blond hair was still a little damp from the shower, and Clara could smell his spicy aftershave. His blue eyes were bright and engaging, his lips were full and kissable, and he had those long black lashes any girl would kill for.

  Marcus was the kind of handsome that always took Clara’s breath away—not a handy thing when her nervousness was making it hard enough to breathe as it was.

  But when Marcus recognized that it was Clara standing outside his room, his eyes hardened. Clara noticed his hands shaking a little, and he reddened when he noticed her noticing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his lip curled. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

  His words cut her like ice. He clearly did not want to see her.

  And yet she pushed her way inside.

  “Hey! What are you doing!” Marcus followed, rushing ahead and then turning on his heels to stop her—but they were already in the middle of the room.

  It was huge, which made sense, considering Marcus’s parents had built nearly half the school. The far wall had two expansive windows with checkered curtains. The room was surprisingly bare of personal touches, though there was a framed photo of “Anastasia” on Marcus’s desk.

  Clara’s breath caught in her throat when she saw the movie poster hanging on Marcus’s wall. Buster Keaton stood in a straw boater and a long coat, his wide-eyed face as stoic and deadpan as ever. It was a poster for Our Hospitality: the movie he’d taken Clara to see on their first date in Chicago. Marcus was a Buster Keaton fan, sure, but why did he choose a poster for that particular film?

  Marcus took a few deep breaths, attempting to cool down. “You have to leave, Clara. I’m not kidding. Girls aren’t allowed in the dorms, particularly not drunk ones.”

  “I’m not drunk!”

  He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “No? Well, it’s almost six o’clock. You’d better get a move on if you want to be half as zozzled as the ot
her flappers at whatever speakeasy or party you’re going to later.”

  “Look, I know I’m the last person you want to see right now. And I’ll go. But first there’s something I need to tell you.” Clara crossed to Marcus’s desk and picked up the picture of his fiancée. “Marcus, this woman is not who she says she is.”

  Marcus laughed incredulously. “That’s it? That’s what you’re here to say? No ‘Hi, Marcus, I haven’t seen you in a month and a half. How’s life been treating you?’ No ‘You’ve started college since the last time I saw you. What’s that like?’ You skip right over all that and start taking shots at my fiancée?”

  His hands started shaking again. “Back in Chicago I liked you because you were different. You were smart, and funny, and you never felt the need to stoop to the level of the Lorraine Dyers of the world. But now you seem just like her.”

  Clara focused all her energy on not allowing tears to spring to her eyes. “No, Marcus, if you’d just listen—”

  “Is this what you’ve stooped to now?” Marcus grabbed the photo from Clara and returned it to his desk. “It wasn’t enough for you to lie to me and break my heart, but you’re now going to try and ruin the rest of my life?”

  Clara could hear the anger giving way to hurt in his voice. She wanted nothing more than to admit how wrong she’d been to lie to him, to let him go so easily. She wanted to close the gap between them and feel his arms around her again.

  Clara took a few steps forward. In response, Marcus’s sky-blue eyes widened—was it from fear of her getting too close, or maybe in anticipation? Clara blinked. It was definitely fear. Her being here was making Marcus incredibly upset.

  She stopped walking when she was close enough to brush Marcus’s hair out of his eyes. His hair always dried messy and unruly before he had the chance to tame it with pomade—another thing Clara had always loved about him.

  “Marcus, I—” Clara began, ready to confess how much she missed him and how she’d do anything to have him back in her life.

  She’d never given Marcus enough credit when it came to understanding all she’d been through in her old New York life, how hard it had been for her to pretend that the glitter and revelry of the flapper world didn’t still call to her. Instead, she told lie after lie, then got angry at Marcus for being less than understanding about her new career as a journalist.

  Marcus hadn’t even told her to stop writing—he’d just encouraged her to go to school and take her writing more seriously. But Clara had decided that Marcus didn’t support her career. If she tried to focus on Marcus’s shortcomings, she could ignore how selfish she’d truly been at the end of their relationship.

  But he’d been right. Parker and the Manhattanite team didn’t take her seriously. Maybe if she apologized, really apologized …

  The words were right there on the tip of Clara’s tongue. But if she said any of them, how would he ever believe her about this Deirdre woman? He’d think she was only spinning lies in order to win him back. Marcus would probably go running back to his Anastasia as fast as his legs could carry him.

  And protecting him from making the mistake of a lifetime was more important than confessing her feelings.

  So Clara moved away from him, sank into the wooden chair in front of his desk, and avoided his gaze. “Marcus, I’m not trying to ruin your life—this has nothing to do with you and me. I mean, there isn’t even a ‘you and me’ anymore. That’s over and we’re both over it, right? I’m here out of friendship. I just don’t like to see a friend get fleeced.”

  It pained her to say the words, because they weren’t true. She wasn’t over it. But if this was the only way to protect Marcus, then she’d have to bite the bullet.

  Marcus was silent. He stood still, one hand resting on the black telephone on his night table. Had he called someone while her back was turned? Clara hadn’t heard him say anything. His eyes narrowed, and Clara could tell right away that she’d said precisely the wrong thing.

  “Friendship?” He scoffed. “You and I were never friends, Clara, and we sure as hell aren’t now. I loved you,” he said in a quieter voice. “I wanted to be with you, and all you wanted to do was party and lie to me.”

  Clara swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to, it was for a job.”

  “A job you never told me about! For no good reason! Unless you didn’t want me to know about the job because you didn’t want me to know about your editor.”

  “Nothing was going on between me and Parker then, and nothing is going on now.” At least she could say that honestly. Semihonestly, anyway.

  “I don’t believe anything you say anymore. You lied to me at first, back in Chicago, but I understood that. You were ashamed of your past. When we got here, though, I realized that wasn’t it—it was just you. You got so caught up in manipulation and double talk as a flapper that now you don’t know how to be honest with anyone.”

  It was what Clara had always feared most. She’d watched enough girls lie their way into speakeasies, into relationships, into money, until they lied even when they didn’t need to. And now here was Marcus, the boy who’d convinced her she was different from all those girls, telling her she was just like them.

  “How was I supposed to keep loving you if I couldn’t believe a word out of your mouth? Only a complete idiot would,” he said grimly. “Do you really not understand what you did wrong?”

  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, Clara said to herself over and over. It had kind of become a personal mantra these past few weeks.

  Marcus held her eyes for a few moments, waiting for the apology Clara couldn’t give him. If she told him how sorry she was, it would tumble into a confession of love that she wouldn’t be able to take back.

  Eventually Marcus exhaled heavily and looked away. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ve found someone who wants to be with me, and I’m not going to let you screw it up. Do yourself a favor and leave. Now.”

  “But I—” Clara began, when a sharp knock on the door interrupted her.

  “Oh, too late,” Marcus said. He flung open the door to reveal two men in black uniforms with silver badges pinned to their chests.

  Clara turned to glare at Marcus. He’d called security on her? Really?

  “This drunk woman burst into my room. I’ve never seen her before in my life.” He looked at Clara with a hint of a smile. It was both sad and cruel at the same time. “Please take her away.”

  LORRAINE

  And Becky had said Lorraine’s opera glasses would never come in handy.

  It was early evening and the streetlamps that dotted Columbia’s campus had just flickered on. The campus was fairly deserted this time of day—just a few students strolled down the cobbled path to the domed library on Lorraine’s left. Wind brushed through the trees and made Lorraine wish she’d brought a sweater or jacket. Why couldn’t summer do everyone a favor and last all year long?

  From her bench on the lawn, Lorraine could nearly see through Marcus’s window into his dorm room. She couldn’t make out who Marcus was talking to, only that it was a girl who was not his fiancée. Lorraine pressed the glasses closer to her face and leaned forward. “What are you up to, Marcus?” she whispered.

  Lorraine had been following Marcus since she’d returned from Long Island two days earlier. Before, she’d only hung around outside Marcus’s classes when she had a spare moment—but now tailing him had become her full-time job.

  She’d been studying how much time Marcus spent with Anastasia/Deirdre, and what times of day she’d be most likely to catch the lying harlot alone. Soon Lorraine would tell Anastasia that she knew about her dirty past and that she’d better come clean to Marcus. Or else Lorraine would … do something. She hadn’t really worked that part out yet.

  Melvin had pointed out that Lorraine’s “research” was remarkably similar to what she had been doing before she’d even known Marcus was engaged. But while that might have seemed to be the case to an oil can like Melvin, her motivations h
ad changed. Lorraine wasn’t just a girl with a crush now: She was a woman on a rescue mission.

  She shivered and set her glasses on the bench so she could rub her hands over her goose-pimpled arms. A sleeveless dress, while fashionable, was not the best attire for spying. Lorraine raised the opera glasses back up to her eyes and saw two security guards in black uniforms in Marcus’s doorway. Where had they come from?

  The guards left nearly as soon as they’d arrived, the woman Marcus had been talking to with them. Seriously, what was going on up there? Lorraine slipped her opera glasses into her purse, rose from the bench, and took a few hesitant steps across the lawn toward Hartley Hall.

  As her heels crunched over the fallen leaves, Lorraine speculated as to who the woman might be. Was Marcus having some kind of affair with a lady criminal?

  When Lorraine was halfway across the lawn, the security guards emerged from the dorm with the woman between them. Lorraine stepped closer, squinted, and gasped.

  Clara Knowles? What had she been doing in Marcus’s room?

  Back at Forrest Hamilton’s party, Clara hadn’t wanted anything to do with Marcus. But clearly something had changed.

  And now Clara was in trouble.

  The security guards began to lead her across the South Lawn, and without another thought, Lorraine raced toward them. Ugh, her brocade T-strap heels were gorgeous, but they were horrid for running. She felt tempted to chuck them off—this damp grass had probably already ruined them anyway.

  She nearly ran into a fellow lugging a huge stack of textbooks when she stopped short near Clara and the security guards. “W-watch where you’re going, y-y-you lousy dew-dropper!” Lorraine yelled at the boy, out of breath. She needed to stop skipping her physical education class so often, even if it was at eight in the morning.

  The boy caught his teetering books before any fell, scowled at her, and stalked off. How rude!

  “Not another one,” the overweight, middle-aged security guard complained. “What are you doing wandering around the campus after dark?” He, the other guard, and Clara all stared at her.